It’s hard not to be happy
When the sun shines
And a troupe of sparrows
Dance a tiny soot brown feather hop
And flit between crumbs and hunger
At my swollen feet.
I watch children play
And poor old men mumble
And stumble over unrequited dreams
While brittle dead leaves gather
In windblown circles at their feet.
Between life and its cruelty,
A respite from spinning clay,
To play with words and talk to God.
